Lost in Translation
by Sanathia
Summary: Ofdensen found Skwisgaar a poor young man in Sweden with nothing but a guitar and incredible playing ability. Can they fight for their love despite not speaking the same language? Dethklok slash Ofdensen/Skwisgaar
1. Stockholm: Part One

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Skwisgaar Skwigelf, Charles Ofdensen, Nathan Explosion, Pickles the Drummer, William Murderface, Magnus Hamilton, or Toki Wartooth. All of them belong to Metalocalypse and thus Brendon Small. I don't claim to own them so please don't sue me. I do, however, own Nilsine and Viveka Kriget. They are not part of the show nor or any of the events listed in the story below.**_

_**Warning: M/M slash. Skwisgaar/Ofdensen, Skwisgaar/OC. Fairly mild. Also, drug and alcohol references and profanity. Rated T.**  
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_It's better than being at home, _Skwisgaar Skwigelf thought to himself, bracing against the cold. He only lived about twenty miles west of Stockholm – his destination. He was sure he could make it there in a night, but as a blizzard threatened him casually, he began to wonder. Still, it wasn't as if his mother would be sending the police after him with a search party. No, she didn't care enough. _Probably too busy whoring around, _he thought bitterly. His boots couldn't keep him warm enough, but the guitar slung around his back did protect him from some of the wind. He only hoped that Stockholm would be all that it promised, he hoped he could get money from his playing and fly somewhere else. Oslo, perhaps. Norway was far enough away from his promiscuous mother.

He could see lights in the distance, though they were few. The white-out effect of the snow caused much of the city to be nothing more than a blur, but he was positive that it was Stockholm he was approaching. He could only hope that a nineteen-year-old could make it with nothing more than a guitar. If not, he supposed he could take a job. But who would hire a high school drop-out?

The city became clearer; even the snow began to calm. It was as though all of Sweden and all of nature beckoned him towards that one place, the only place that could protect him. The light of dawn embraced the horizon, drawing Skwisgaar further into its promise of bliss. Two people became visible in the light, a young woman and her little sister. Both had short blonde hair, but the older had her cropped up to her scalp. The budding guitarist found her quite attractive and approached her carefully.

"Excuse me, miss," he began in his native tongue. "Could you tell me where I am?" He knew exactly where he was, but the girl was quite beautiful. She turned around and appraised him quietly. He figured that she would be disgusted by his ice-covered coat, his black boots filthy and a tacky guitar swung over his back. After a moment, she responded.

"This is Bromma," she finally responded in a husky tone. Her little sister tugged gently on her coat sleeve, but the girl ignored her. "Abrahamsberg, actually. Are you lost?"

"Well…no. Not exactly. But I need a place to stay for a week or so. I was hoping I was where someone would know me." He was straight-out lying; he knew none of his family, and was positive that none of them would live in Stockholm. From what little his mother had told him, her family were loners and would rather die than live in a city.

"Do you know anyone here?" The girl's sister continued to tug on her sleeve, but with more vigor. The girl hushed her sister.

"No."

The girl bit her lip decisively. "Perhaps you could stay with me. I need to take my sister to school, but if you're here when I return, I can see what I can do." The girl finally gave into her sister's plea, but shouted back, "My name is Nilsine!"

"I am Skwisgaar!" he shouted back. She nodded, but was then gone.

Nilsine. How beautiful. He began to hyperventilate as he remembered her; she had silky blonde hair that looked as though it was weaved of silvery thread, but was like a crown as it was so close to her head. Her lips were a delicate pink, straight white teeth hidden beneath them. She had a straight nose and strangely green eyes, a rare occurrence amongst Swedes. But it was her freckles that truly stood out to Skwisgaar; his mother had them, only she used heavy amounts of makeup to hide them. Nilsine allowed them to be displayed to the world, not ashamed of who she was. He smiled as he thought of her.

About an hour later, Nilsine returned without the little girl. Her red coat was fraying at the ends of her sleeves as though worn, but his were no better on his once-white coat. She was silent, looking down at him in his sitting position. He stood, and then was peering down at her. She smiled meekly.

"You would like a place to stay?" He nodded, so she continued. "I will provide that, and food. My father won't be home for another month, so you can stay until then. And you must keep clean."

"I am very clean," he assured her with a smile. "You won't even know I'm there."

"Oh, and you mustn't look, touch, or talk to my sister, Viveka. She's much too impressionable to be talking to a…homeless hobo."

Skwisgaar nodded with shame. "I will be gone most of the day, I only need food and a place to sleep at night. I promise."

She nodded stiffly. "Where are your things?"

"I don't have any. This is it." He gestured vaguely at the guitar on his back.

"Then let me show you your room." She took his hand gingerly and led him into her tiny house, then all the way to the back into a tiny room with nothing more than a cot. A tiny, tiny cot. Skwisgaar smirked and tossed his guitar across the room, taking a seat on the cot. When he looked up to thank Nilsine, she was already gone.

"Welcoming host," he muttered, picking up his guitar and lightly played out a quick solo. He played it a few more times, then continued into the rest of the song. _Cold Day in Hell, _he believed it was called. He'd been practicing the solo all of the past summer. His idol, Yngwie Malmsteen, had performed the solo at a live concert once, the high point of his otherwise dismal existence. He played it a few more times, until it was comfortable, then peered out the window at the snowy oblivion.

The sun was low in the sky, probably after noon already. He heard the door open and close, then pounding footsteps all the way to his room. The door slammed open, revealing the tiny frame of Nilsine. Her coat was the same as before, but she was now wearing a short skirt and tall boots. She was frowning.

"I'm leaving to get my sister. I don't expect you to be here when I return, since you promised to be gone during the days."

"Agreed," he stuttered with a smile. _She's so beautiful…_

"Good." Nilsine was gone, and Skwisgaar was already packing his guitar into its case. He couldn't risk losing his shelter. He traveled down the road aways, wandering and looking for an audience.

There was a small crowd walking down a particular road on both sides, so he plunked his guitar case down and started unloading. He left the case open to collect money, then began playing out a long, complicated solo that earned a few kronor, and that was all he got the whole day. As the sun set over the broad horizon, he felt his hopes go down with it. Maybe he should just go back to his mother, maybe he should give up all of his dreams of being a professional guitarist. Maybe…

He walked aimlessly down foreign streets paved with rushing people pushing past him as he casually strolled down the roads. He turned on a familiar-looking street, only to find himself lost again. There was no rhyme or reason to the order of things in Stockholm, just pointless dead-ends.

Eventually, after asking for directions and getting lost a few more times, he found himself in Abrahamsberg again. All of Bromma seemed silent, all of windows dim at the early time of night. Even the house he believed to be Nilsine's was dark until he knocked on it. She opened it cautiously, then gave him a horrified look.

"Have you been just wandering?" The worried look on her face grew as he nodded. "Are you insane? You'll get robbed!"

"I have nothing worth taking."

"It will be taken nonetheless. You must come back before sunset if you want to survive!"

"I can't afford that."

"Then you'll die a rich fool," she snapped, rushing back to what he assumed to be her bedroom. He went back to his own room and sighed at how impersonal the whole place was. It was no better or worse than his previous home, but he somehow expected more. He laid his head onto the flat pillow on his cot and fell asleep with his guitar wrapped snuggly in his arms.


	2. Stockholm: Part Two

"I got your call," Charles Foster Ofdensen said carefully as he walked into the studio. "What do you boys need?"

The "boys" were settled in their normal way; Nathan Explosion, their singer, was practicing his growls in the corner of the room. Though quite muscular, the frontman was developing a drinking habit and a beer gut was beginning to form. Their drummer and back-up vocalist, who went by nothing more than Pickles, was a scrawny boy lying half passed-out over an amp. Magnus Hamilton, Dethklok's guitarist, was arguing loudly with the newest member – a depressing bassist named William Murderface. From what Ofdensen could gather, Magus and Murderface were quarrelling over guitars.

Nathan immediately turned around when he heard their manager enter the room, revealing a clean-shaven face with greasy black hair matted and tangled in front of it. He was sweating after practicing, but didn't seem out of breath.

"Hey, Ofdensen." Nathan was casual, poking Pickles' stomach to get him up. The red haired beauty sat up with a grunt and lazily saluted. He fell back down, obviously high.

"What do you need?" Ofdensen persisted. Magnus scorned him angrily, finally turning from his debate with Murderface.

"We don't _need _anything," sneered the angry guitarist.

"Yes, we do," growled Nathan. "We need another guitarist. A lead guitarist. Magnus is good for, uh, rhythm. But not solos."

"And, how do you expect me to, ah, fix this?"

"We put all our money together and bought you a plane ticket to Sweden."

Ofdensen pushed his glasses up his nose. "Why Sweden?" He knew immediately that the response would be some sort of racially incorrect statement.

"Sweden got da best guitarists," Pickles piped in. "Ya got Mikael Akerfeldt, and Yngwie Malmsteen…and…" His tenor voice faded.

"So, you already bought the tickets?"

_"Ticket," _Nathan corrected. "There's only one."

Ofdensen pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

[]

The plane ride, though turbulent, was pleasant as a whole. The flight attendant was a tiny Swedish girl who spoke with a heavy accent and seemed to be flirting the entire trip. She often made needless excuses to be standing near his seat.

"Hello," the attendant huffed after ten minutes of leaning heavily on his seat with no avail. "Are you having good flight?"

"It's just lovely, thank you."

"Is there…_anything_…I can get you?" The girl gave a wink, batting her long fake eyelashes at him.

"No, not at all. Thanks, though. How much longer until we get to Stockholm?"

"An hour, perhaps?" she tittered. Ofdensen nodded, then waited. Eventually, the pilot announced over the speaker that they were flying over Norway, only a half an hour until they would reach Stockholm. The manager nodded again to himself.

When the plane finally made its bumpy landing, Ofdensen was the first off. He had only one suitcase and was determined that he'd buy a ticket back to America before he even had to re-wear any of his suits. He was immediately welcomed by his driver, who asked him where he wanted to go.

"I guess I'll search west to east," he muttered to himself. He quickly opened his map and pointed at the westernmost place on the map. "Hässelby," he directed.

[]

The cab driver finally turned onto a street in Abrahamsberg, where a small crowd was gathered. "Pull over here," he commanded, hoping the driver would understand. He appeared to, although Ofdensen's gestures may've given him a clue as to what the foreigner wanted. Ofdensen quickly rushed out of the car and pushed past the crowd. It was there that he saw for the first time a lanky blonde with ability superior to anything else in the world.

Ofdensen's eyes were wide, his mouth agape as he heard the sheer speed and power behind the guitarist's fingers. It was an acoustic in his arms, but the sound emanating from it made a noise like the ancient gods themselves were speaking. The manager knew this was the perfect lead guitarist for Dethklok the instant he heard him.

The crowd cleared after about ten minutes of pure playing, so Ofdensen took that as an opportunity to make his move. "Excuse me, sir, I'm Charles Foster Ofdensen and I think –"

"Vad? Vad säger du?" asked the young man timidly, tilting his head to the side. He cradled his guitar carefully, as though it were the only thing in his world.

Ofdensen cursed. He'd forgotten the language barrier. He pointed at the guitar, then mimed flying on a plane. "What is your name?" he asked, pronouncing each word carefully.

"Mitt namn är Skwisgaar Skwigelf," the man said confidently. "Gitarr." He pointed to his instrument.

"Guitar, yes. Fly to _America _and play it."

"Amerika. Av vilken anledning?"

Ofdensen hit his forehead with his hand. He knew very little Swedish. "Ah…du talar nå engelska?" he asked. It was one of the only things he knew, and it meant "do you speak any English?" He waited for a response.

"Lite," he murmured.

"I want you to come to America and play guitar –" he quickly pointed at the guitar, " – for a band called Dethklok."

"Planes ticket?"

"I can buy a plane ticket right now and be in America by tomorrow."

The boy seemed to be pondering. At least he understood coming to America with his guitar. And that, for the moment, was all he needed to know.

[]

America. Skwisgaar knew it was the land of freedom and opportunity. But…he couldn't bear the thought of leaving. Sure he'd be far from his mother and following his dreams, but what about Nilsine? Over the last week, he'd fallen into a sort of love with her. He couldn't leave. He couldn't even speak English.

The man stared down at him with hope set deep inside his brown eyes. Brown eyes, another thing never seen in Sweden. The hope of a new life continued to build within him, but the thought of Nilsine threatened to tear it back down. She was the light in his darkened existence. Her halo of silvery locks seemed to be a crown deeming her the queen of his life. He was sure that he loved her, but did she love him? How could he possibly leave without knowing! How could leave at all without her?

The man called Ofdensen continued to stare down at him expectantly. "No," he finally breathed. "I cannot." And with nothing more than that, he stood and began packing up his guitar.

He walked down the dimming streets slowly, savoring the scent of Stockholm. It was industrial and smoky, but pleasant. If he breathed hard enough, he could even smell something like Nilsine's perfume; floral and sweet, almost like nature itself. And yet, he found himself considering the option of traveling to America. The idea stirred around in his brain as he rounded onto Nilsine's road. That had been his dream all along; to fly somewhere else and play his guitar professionally. So now that it was placed before him, why did he even hesitate?

He knocked at the Kriget's door, which little Viveka opened graciously. She gasped at him, and the graceful Nilsine stepped behind her, allowing Skwisgaar to enter. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress with a diagonal hem from her left hip to her right knee. It was purple and flowing and suited her petite frame well.

"Good evening, Miss Kriget," he joked with a smile. She smiled back.

"Did you earn many kronor?" She seemed genuinely concerned that he wouldn't be able to make it once he was kicked out.

"More than usual. Rush hour was good." He grinned, then faltered. "I got something better today, actually."

"What could be better that money?"

"An opportunity," he replied quickly, setting his guitar case down. "An opportunity to go away to America and play professionally."

"So you are leaving soon?"

"No!" he snapped, then frowned at her wince. "I mean…well, no. I'm sorry for being angry, but I can't accept it."

"And why not? You know I must revoke your right to live here in two weeks anyway!" She stroked his cheek gently.

"I can't leave Sweden. I can't leave the city."

"Is there a certain reason for that?"

"You," he responded bluntly, looking down at his guitar. "I can't leave Sweden because I can't leave you."

"Skwisgaar…"

"Nilsine, I think I love you. And I owe you at least the money I've earned for letting me live here before I go anywhere."

"You can't stay here because you love me."  
>"Why not?"<p>

"Because, I can't love you back. Skwisgaar, I'm…engaged."

Skwisgaar was horrified. "What? Engaged?"

"Not of my own free will," she assured him quietly. "But my father has promised me to another. And I agreed when I was far too young to know what I was agreeing to. You have to go, Skwisgaar, or I won't be able to follow through on my promise."

"Run away with me," he said abruptly. "I'll find that Ofdensen man, accept the offer, and take you with me."

"No." She was shaking her head resolutely. "I can't do that. Please, just take the offer and go, before I _do _fall in love with you." Nilsine turned on her heels and fled to her room.

The young guitarist didn't know what to do. He was alone again, but everything seemed wrong. The books and the movies and the songs…all of them told him that if he loved a girl she was entitled to love him back. But Nilsine had rejected him like his mother, so he felt there was no choice but to begin his search for Ofdensen in the morning; after all, what more than the Krigets were in Stockholm for Skwisgaar?

_**A/N**_

_**As for the Magnus/Mayer controversy: I have no idea what Dethklok's original rhythm guitarist's name is/was. Honestly, I don't care. I'm only going with Magnus because it's the more popular and well-known version. Yes, I've watched all the zoomed-in videos on the contract...I still don't know what to think. So as far as this story goes, his name is Magnus. ~ Sanathia**_


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